Charles Simic
Loons
By the force of their imaginings
They’d change from men to women,
And women again to men,
Not to forget dogs, asses, chickens.
In that burgh where they hoodwink
One another, dupe, beguile
The visitor, the road seemed moonstruck
Even in broad daylight.
The country store with a porch sold loons
Made out of blocks of wood
The same dead set, loony look
Replicated in hundreds of birds.
The chuckling boy who pumped my gas
Held a tomcat under his other arm.
Did they know what they were?
Loons, I shouted, as I drove off.
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